Impossible Comes True (It's Taking Over You)
by Arksendis
Summary: Oliver Queen has always had grand dreams of the unusual and impossible. He starts a circus, recruiting the acrobat Dick Grayson, the "Atlantean" Kaldur'ahm, the flame dancer Wally West, the archer Artemis Crock, the "strongest man on Earth" Conner Kent, and the green-skinned beauty, Megan Morse. This is their story of overcoming prejudice and standing against discrimination.
1. A Million Dreams

**A/N: Cross posted on AO3 under the name Darksendis.**

 **This chapter is to set the stage for the upcoming story. More characters to be introduced.**

 **This is a Greatest Showman! AU. You don't need to watch the movie to understand what's going on here-I set the scene in this first chapter.**

* * *

Oliver looks in the mirror at his ratty slacks, swallowing. He follows his father closely, nearly tripping over his heels. The summer is warm, but the scenery is cold. They walk past dull trees, their green muted. Together, they approach a large manor on a hill.

Entering the courtyard, Oliver waits patiently as his father greets the occupants of the manor, and when his father signals for him to do so, he enters, glancing around him and trying not to gape in awe. A grand staircase winds its way up to the second floor, the ceiling reaching higher than Oliver would have thought possible. The floors are shiny and free of dirt, making Oliver feel bad for walking on them.

They enter a back parlor, where the dining room is visible. The hallway that leads to the entryway is also visible, and there are several floor-to-ceiling windows. Despite these windows, though, the room seems dark. The carpet and paintings appear sorrowful, the atmosphere dismal.

A maid's strict voice drifts through the downstairs, and Oliver cranes his neck, curious. While his father works on measurements of a man, he spots a fair blonde-haired girl in the dining room, sitting properly. She raises a teacup to her lips delicately, her pinky struggling to raise, despite the maid's commands.

Oliver's heart skips a beat as their eyes meet.

Her eyes are cerulean, standing out from a porcelain face. Her blonde hair is tied back tightly, cascading downwards in several delicate curls, falling over themselves. Her dress looks rather uncomfortable, and she looks rather uncomfortable in it.

Oliver quickly averts his eyes, instead, turning to the trinkets on the desk. He grins as he finds a brass cup. Quickly thinking, he attaches a makeshift handle out of spare material to the cup and mimics the maid's instructions, lifting his pinkie delicately and sipping dramatically from the cup.

The girl in the other room breaks into a smile, snorting out a laugh, and incidentally spilling everywhere. Oliver laughs along with her, and their laughter echoes through the rooms. In that moment, Oliver feels as if the rest of the world has faded—it's just him and this girl.

He's brought back to harsh reality when a slap from the girl's father comes.

Oliver is quickly kicked out of the manor, where he bites back tears, tenderly feeling his cheek. His own father had also reprimanded him. He sullenly walks to the back of the manor, where he had heard waves crashing against a shore.

He's rewarded by the sight of the ocean, stretching for miles. He hadn't known the manor was so close. Smiling to himself (though it stings his cheek to do so), he quickly dashes for the waves, his hands outstretched as if welcoming the waters.

Coarse grass scrapes against his slacks as he leaps for a small outcropping. In the grasses, he sits, watching the ocean with wide-eyed curiosity. It amazes him, the way the waves crash against the shore, the wind buffeting his back, the cry of seagulls and the smell of salt.

The day is waning, and the sun is slowly drifting towards the western horizon. He doesn't hear her footsteps.

Dinah approaches Oliver, taking a seat next to him. He begins.

He tells her of his great dream—of his great dream that he's sure to make reality. He tells her of a house, a grand house, one that's not fancy nor entirely modest. Filled with beautiful and strange things. He wants this for her. He wants to make her smile, even on the rainy days.

He prattles on, his ideas flowing freely with her nearby, and she listens intently. When he pauses for breath, she instantly smiles, her cherry lips parting. She begins.

His relief is evident as she reassures him that she wants to be a part of his world. She wants to make that house, she wants to dream with him. She wants to construct a world that's entirely theirs, but not theirs at the same time—a world that anyone can come to, one filled with wonderful oddities and rarities.

Time passes.

Letters are exchanged back and forth as Dinah is sent to a new school. Oliver rushes to the mailbox in search of her letters. When his father dies, her letters are the last thing he has to hold onto.

He steals when he has to. He nabs an apple, and is pursued, the apple ripped away from him. He wants to spit at the offending vendor. Surely he can't spare one simple apple? Time has changed Oliver. His dreams remain, but his money does not. His clothes are increasingly dirty, his appearance more haggard with each passing day.

A woman with a deformed face and a permanent hunch approaches him. Seeing her appearance, Oliver tenses instinctively, but relaxes when he sees she's offering an apple. Tentatively, he reaches out and grabs the apple from her hand.

No words need to be exchanged. She can see the gratitude in his eyes. Smiling softly, she turns and makes her way down the street, mindful of the stares she receives. Ollie himself stares after her with wide eyes.

Time passes.

Ollie steals Dinah away, and the two dance together amongst the city streets, teasing one another, tempting one another, daring the other to continue. They dance through the forests, each winding around the other in perfect harmony. It isn't the most beautiful dance one has seen, but it's enough for them.

Ollie asks for Dinah's father's blessing.

He rejects him.

They elope.

Together, they build a life. A life full of love, one that doesn't require much. He works at a dead-end job, slaving as a typist. He's always eager, however, to come home to see his two girls, Emiko and Lian. And, of course, his beautiful wife, Dinah.

Ollie walks into work, a smile plastered to his face. He continues with his job, but finally stands, walking to his boss, who is standing at the front of the room. He pleads with his boss that he can do something more, that he doesn't have to sit here at this endless job, typing away.

His boss turns to the room, addressing it and stopping all workers.

Ollie feels a rare moment of self-consciousness, concerned that his boss will be making an example out of him to the other workers. He involuntarily steps back a couple of paces.

"Can I have your attention," the boss says, but Ollie thinks it's useless. He already has the room's attention. "You're all dismissed."

Ollie's jaw drops, and he struggles to reign in his shock as a murmur of dissent comes from the workers. Nonetheless, they begin to pack up, their minds already on the next job. Ollie hopelessly watches as his boss leaves the front of the room, walking through the room.

"Bankrupt?" Ollie asks in a rush, approaching his boss with wide eyes. "But…your ships. The ones in the—"

"Sunk," his former boss informs him with a dry tone. "You're still just the tailor sport, Queen. Better luck with your next job."

He leaves before Ollie can get a word in edgewise.

Ollie arrives back at the apartment, his eyes downcast. It's well past sunset, and he's surprised when he doesn't see his family in their beds. Wandering up to the rooftop, he finds them amongst the hanging sheets, the girls dancing together as Dinah bends over a basket, folding clothing.

She straightens, noticing his arrival. Walking over to him, she slips her arms around his waist and gives him a small, sweet kiss. Tasting her lipstick, he pulls away, and she looks at him imploringly, sensing immediately something's wrong.

"The company's bankrupt," Ollie says hoarsely, and her hard blue eyes soften the tiniest bit.

"That's all right," Dinah says soothingly, brushing a stray piece of blond hair back behind his ear. "There are plenty of job opportunities in the big city. Don't worry, dear."

Ollie shakes his head vigorously. "This isn't the life I promised you. Not even close."

Dinah's smile is sweet, just like the first day they had met. She leans in close to his ear. "But I have everything I want," she whispers, her eyes sliding behind him.

He turns, seeing his two girls playing with the sheets. Lian startles Emiko, emerging from the sheets like a ghost. Both break out into giggles. He allows a smile to finally grace his face, feeling the corners of his eyes crinkle. A happiness fills his chest, a weight lifting from his shoulders.

"Daddy!"

One of them has spotted him. He spreads his arms wide.

"Who are my favorite two girls in the entire world?" he asks, bending down as they barrel into him, hugging him tightly. Looking up at Dinah's stern face, he swallows. "I mean, three girls in the entire world?"

Lian giggles. "Daddy! It's my birthday today. Did you bring me anything?"

"It's your birthday?" Ollie asks, his surprise evident. He can feel Dinah's disapproval radiating off of her, despite her pleasant face. "No, that can't be right. It can't be my Lian's birthday!"

The girl giggles as Ollie directs her to sit down on a wooden crate, her sister right next to her. He flips open his briefcase, his hands working quickly as he struggles to assemble some sort of a unique birthday present, talking the entire time about his wondrous gift.

His quick thinking saves him this time as he produces a small lamp. At first, Lian's face falls, but when he activates the lamp, it lifts.

He's put a fancy cup over on top of the lamp, the cup host to flower designs that crisscross in simplistic but charming patterns. As the lamp turns on, the light filters through the flower-shaped holes in the cup, casting unique shadows on the sheets around them. Without hesitation, he spins it, smiling. The shadows leap across the sheets, eliciting gasps from both of his daughters.

"This…is a dream catcher," he tells his daughters conspiratorially. "You whisper your dreams into it, and it holds onto them forever until those dreams come true. Even if you forget them."

Lian, excited, leans in, whispering something inaudible to him. Then comes Emiko, whose voice is louder than Lian's.

"I wish for some ballet slippers," Emiko says softly, looking at the dream catcher in awe.

Ollie glances at Dinah.

Later, he tucks his two girls in, hesitating as their eyes remain wide, fully awake.

"If you could dream something up, what would it be?" he asks quietly, a moment of weakness. His girls seem to recognize this, but nonetheless, small hearty grins spread across their faces.

"A lion, an elephant," Lian says excitedly, her sister glancing over, sharing her excitement.

"Or a giant, ten feet tall!" Emiko uses her hands to heighten her point, making faces.

Ollie laughs, but as he laughs, he realizes something, an idea, an inkling forming in the back of his brain. He's always the type to think on his feet. "Girls…" he starts, his grin growing wider. "I think I've hard an idea."

The night passes quickly, Ollie laying awake for the most of it, his eyes staring at the ceiling as his wife sleeps comfortably beside him. His thoughts fly, memories and dreams flitting across his vision. He remembers a small, dying museum on the corner of a street not three blocks from his apartment. He remembers nabbing his boss's paper slip detailing the ships his former company had owned.

The next day, he goes to the bank, asking for a loan.

As collateral, he offers up his old company's ships. The bank doesn't know that they're sunk. What they don't know won't hurt them.

Setting quickly to work, Ollie buys the old museum. As soon as he does, he arrives home, announcing his purchase, leading his girls and wife to the museum and giving them the grand tour, showing them the wax statues. He opens up the museum to the public.

They sell no tickets.

Ollie wrings his hands through his hair. He needs something. He's running a failing business—one that's only been alive for a couple of days. He hasn't earned any money, and there's no way he can keep the museum afloat with the current funds he has right now. He's surviving off of the bank's loan.

An idea comes to him, again.

"Here…we need the unusual. The macabre!" Ollie announces gleefully to his wife and kids.

Dinah had looked dubious when he had announced he was buying the museum. But now, in this moment, that old look crosses her face—the one that's full of wonder, the kind of wonder she's had as a child. She's never abandoned it.

"People are fascinated by it!" he says, spreading his arms wide. "I'm going to put together a show—a show of unusual and abnormal things! A place where people can come in and forget about the outside world! An entirely new fake reality!"

The notices for auditions for his "freak show" are erected in every corner of the city, his daughters distributing them without abandon, their excitement matching his.

The front of the museum is repainted so Queen's Circus is proudly displayed.

And so, the show begins.


	2. Come Alive

**A/N: Thank you for reviewing, favoriting, and following! Here's the second chapter, where our characters are finally introduced.**

* * *

A line gathers. Ollie sits happily at a small table, the museum surrounding them.

The museum isn't much to look at. After moving the majority of the wax pieces out, it's opened up a bit, but the architecture is strange. Unique. Circular rafters curl around the room, wooden staircases leading upwards to them. A circular floor is the focal point of the museum, and daylight filters in from a skylight far above. The circular interior gives way to endless nooks and crannies, along with back rooms and a variety of exits. The place has an old feel to it, nearly charming, but not quite.

Ollie smiles brightly as he sees the line curl out the door. The first few people jostle one another, approaching him with varying degrees of confidence. To his left and right, Lian and Emiko sit, both bouncing slightly in their seats, their excitement great.

"I'm here to audition."

Ollie tilts his head up. Up and up. A rather tall man stands before him, his shoulders broad and muscular, his hair jet black. He wears a nondescript shirt that does nothing to hide his well-built figure, and his face is stricter than Ollie's dad's.

"I'm Conner Kent," the boy says, almost bashfully. But not. Awkwardly? No, no, not that, either. Ollie can't seem to pin him down.

"By God-just how strong are you?" Ollie asks in a hushed tone, admiring Conner's well-defined muscles. "How much can you lift, man?!"

Conner shrugs, looking shy suddenly. "I've managed a carriage, just an inch off the ground."

"A _horse and carriage_ , you say?" Ollie says, twisting Conner's words with a wry smile. "Excellent! Please, proceed behind me. Girls, direct him to the lounge."

The "lounge" is a backroom, where Ollie has arranged a few last-minute couches and stools, where he plans to speak to the hopefuls and tell them just what they're in for. He watches as Emiko and Lian leap to their feet, each taking one of Conner's hands (causing the poor guy to bend over) and dragging him to the lounge, babbling excitedly.

Ollie watches them fondly. Oh, yes. Conner will certainly be fitting in.

He cycles through several more hopefuls, telling some they'll fit right in, telling others to find work elsewhere. He finds the strangest of people—a rather large man named Ralph, a man whose face is warped so his features are nearly unnoticeable, a woman whose skin is pale as ice and a jewel embedded into her forehead.

"Next!" he calls, enthusiastically waving his hand as a raven-haired young man approaches.

"I'm Dick Grayson, a trapeze artist," he says, looking around.

"Perfect!" Ollie says with his trademark grin, rubbing at his beginnings of a beard. "How long have you been...trapezering, Mr. Grayson?"

"Dick is fine," the man is quick to reassure Ollie, who quickly takes a mental note. "I've been in the arts since I was a young boy. Gymnastics always appealed to me, and when I heard of the new trapeze, I had to give it a go."

"You're in," Ollie says immediately, thumping the table. "We'll get a trapeze set up in these rafters, just for you. Now, go on back to the lounge!"

The younger man quickly obeys, striding past Ollie and following Lian's beckons. Ollie smiles to himself, leaning back contentedly. The line is considerably shorter, now, but he can still see some visible oddities in the back, something he wants to investigate.

"Next!" he calls.

Two teenagers approach, close to one another. They look rather flighty, Ollie notices with a frown. One's a redhead, only slightly taller than the blonde. He wears a large ratty shawl, his arm stretched around the blonde's shoulders. The girl herself is dressed in an identical shawl that she wraps around herself protectively, concealing anything underneath.

Ollie's eyes are drawn to the redhead, whose face is covered in a mass of freckles. What stands out the most, however, is a long, swollen scar that stretches from the bottom left of his lip and curves down his collarbone, disappearing into the shawl.

"I'm Artemis," the blonde greets, her voice low and husky, drawing Ollie's eyes away. "And this is Wally. We can be a combo act, but we work well separate, too."

"And what do you two do?" Ollie asks with a smile that he hopes reassures them. It doesn't seem to, and they don't relax, their stances obviously guarded.

"I'm a flame dancer," Wally speaks, and when he smiles (even if it's fake), dimples interrupt the scattering of freckles he possesses. "She's an archer."

Ollie nods. "A flame dancer, I can see," he says, but looks at Artemis, his gaze falling into a more serious one. "Archery, however?"

"I—" Artemis bites back whatever she's about to say, and he can see a look of fierce determination briefly cross her face. She sighs in resignation, dropping the shawl.

Ollie blanches. Where her hands are supposed to be are bandaged stumps, wrapped tightly in white linen. Wally's shawl drops as well, revealing that he wears no sleeves—and that his arms are covered in too many burns to count, raising the skin.

"She uses her feet to shoot," Wally explains in a rush. "And together, we—"

"You're in," Ollie says quickly, inserting himself. "Perfect for my show. You two will do phenomenal jobs. Go on back with my daughters—they'll show you the lounge."

He feels pity swell in the pit of his stomach as the two leave, but he's also left with a sense of unabashed wonder. Those two have a past, and it's obviously brought them closer together. He knows it's not his place, but he can't help but feel a bit curious.

The line dwindles until only a few are left. Finally, his last hopeful arrives, staring down at his feet.

Ollie is surprised.

A black man stands before him, taller than Oliver, but somehow making himself appear smaller. His pale eyes are downcast, his hands behind his back. He wears a dirty shirt that covers his head in a hood, darkening his features further. Ollie gestures forward, and somehow the man picks up on the movement.

"What's your name?" Ollie asks, his voice softer than before, despite the rising din behind him. The "lounge" is getting rather packed.

"Kaldur'ahm," the man replies in a voice deeper than thought. His eyes remain riveted to the ground. "Your show said open to all abnormalities of society."

He reaches up and lets his hood fall away. Ollie can't help but stare.

There are slits on the side of this man's neck. Actual gills! Ollie's giddiness rises as he notices Kaldur's fingers. They're webbed.

"You are perfect," he breathes out, reaching for Kaldur's neck. The other doesn't flinch away as Ollie carefully feels the slits. "Do those actually…"

"Work?" Kaldur smiles shrewdly. "No, sir. But I can hold my breath for long periods of time."

"Oh, so they _do_ work?" Ollie asks, twisting Kaldur's words just as he did Conner's. "Excellent! Come on, I've got just the spot for you! The lounge awaits!"

Posters the next day boast about the _Super Man_ , the _Flying Grayson_ , the _Spitfires_ , and the _Mythical Atlantean_.

* * *

Ollie takes to the streets, searching for more acts. His museum can certainly host more.

He's paid a small trapeze company to come and install the necessary requirements for the trapeze to be put up—Ollie didn't bother with the specifics. He also went to the local aquariums and asked for a large glass tank, one for Kaldur when he performs his acts. Unfortunately, they didn't have the size he wanted, so he had to go to the glass company, instead.

This finished, he has taken to the streets in search of more rarities. He half wishes he can encounter that woman from his childhood, offer her a place to stay, tell her how grateful he is to her. He's walking just a few blocks from the museum when he hears it.

A soft voice drifts out from a nearby building, tentative but strong. He doesn't know how, but it is. He feels desperately enchanted, and immediately stops, causing a woman to slam into him from behind. Apologizing, he turns and nudges open the door, searching for the sound of the voice.

He finds himself in a room full of women, all sewing or doing laundry. Several try to push him out, but Ollie steadfastly and stubbornly stays, on the hunt.

"Don't go in there," a woman advises him in a hushed tone as his eyes set on a pair of hanging sheets in the back. The voice emanates from there. "She's hideous."

The rest of the women giggle, and Ollie nearly flinches at the inhumanity as he pushes past them (rather roughly this time), reaching the curtain. The singing stops abruptly as soon as the singer realizes there's someone on the other side.

"Please, sir, leave."

The voice is soft, just like when she had been singing.

"Oh, please, I can't. Your voice…" Ollie trails off, his fingers itching to rip away the sheet blocking him from this ethereal singer. "I'm Oliver Queen, at your service. I'm putting together a show. And I," he rips open the sheets, "need a star."

He gasps. On the other side is a woman who cowers away from him. She's dressed modestly, and short red hair cascades down her shoulders in rivulets. Startled dark eyes meet his, when he notices. _She's green_. Every inch of her, save her hair. Her skin is the fairest green he's ever seen, even her lips. Green hands clutch tightly at a cleaning rag.

"You're…beautiful!" Ollie exclaims, his voice full of enthusiasm. "What is your name?"

"Please, sir, I need you to leave," the woman says, a pink blush rising to her cheeks, disrupting the wonderful green. Giggles erupt behind him, but Ollie doesn't turn.

"What can I say that will persuade you to join my show?" Ollie counters instead, and the woman looks startled again that he's addressing her.

"Sir, I can't," the woman says in a rushed whisper, looking behind his shoulder briefly. "I'm not like anyone else. I'm hideous."

Ollie's eyes narrow, and he feels a growing resentment for the women crowded behind him. "Everyone is special," he starts slowly, choosing his words carefully, for he's sure this woman won't listen to his _you're beautiful_ speech. "And nobody is like anyone else. _That's_ the point of my show."

The girl glances up hopefully.

Ollie later learns that her name is Megan, and her skin coloring is the result of a birth defect. She's going to be the star of his show, like he had said. Her singing voice is absolutely magnificent.

His show is finally ready. He holds rehearsals, and his "freaks," as they refer to themselves as, perform splendidly. He claps his hands together, finally setting up dates for performances, inviting the public, handing out invitations. People are utterly fascinated.

The first show begins.

Megan's singing voice shocks the audience, and she can make them obey her every whim. Her powerful vocal chords are the focal point of his entire show, his base. It begins and ends with Megan, with her singing in the middle, the rest of his freaks dancing rehearsed pieces, in sync with the music and each other perfectly.

Dick swoops around the circular museum, truly looking as if he's flying. Patrons gasp in awe as he reaches his hands outwards, nearly brushing the hands of the audience, but falling back just in time, just like an illusion. Ollie's smile spreads whenever he sees the audience's eyes light up.

Conner towers over the rest of the dancers, and even has a little section with Dick at one point, where Dick balances on Conner's outstretched hands. They nearly reach the rafters with Conner's lofty height, and several more limber acts climb atop Conner as he showcases his strengths, lifting his fellow performers with ease.

Near the back, stretching up towards the ceiling, is a clear tank filled with water. Kaldur, the Atlantean, swims gracefully through the water. Ollie never could have imagined Kaldur's skill in the water when they had first met. Now, he sees, he had made the right call to buy the floor-to-ceiling tank. Kaldur's lung capacity is also magical, further convincing the audience of the authenticity of the "Atlantean."

Wally stands in the center as Megan steps off to the side. He holds a long staff in his hands, the edges coated in some sort of cloth. He dips the edges into a waiting flame, and they alight in a shocking blue color. The redhead solemnly begins his dance, twisting the flames about, his body moving in synchronized and mystical movements. Ollie can only watch, transfixed, as the flames become an _extension_ of Wally.

In the midst of the chaos is an outstanding element of concentration and skill. On stumps, Artemis quickly flips into a handstand, bending her back and legs until they form a C shape. She holds her bow with her left foot as she draws an arrow back with her right in a carefully controlled movement, her defined abs visible in her crop top. She looses the arrow. It sails through the air, striking a target just in its bulls-eye. Ollie is on his feet, applauding as she does it again. And again. She's truly a wonder.

He feels a great pride swell up in his chest, and he can feel Dinah gripping his hand in happiness. His daughters ooh and aah with the crowd. Ollie's finally achieved what he's always wanted to do. The crowd eats it all up, cheering loudly at the end.

Megan's eyes catch Ollie's.

He gives her a thumbs-up.

For once, a shy smile graces her face as roses are thrown into the ring.

* * *

The next morning, the newspapers arrive.

 _Queen's Freak Show._

With dread, Ollie reads the article.


	3. The Other Side

**A/N: Some have been curious as to who I'm using for the Anne/Phillip relationship, and in this chapter, there's a little foreshadowing as to what it is. This ship is frankly a little less popular than most, but it's one that I find I enjoy quite a bit. The character dynamics just _work_ so well together, and dialogue from the show itself could arguably support it (even though it's non-canon). Instead of racism (with this ship), I tried to tackle another subject that's still prominent today: homophobia.**

* * *

Ollie laughs, congratulating his troupe before leaving to attend a small gala. He's been invited—and he wants to bring along the rest of his show, the talented men and women working under him. They deny him this time, but he ensures they promise they'll come next time.

The gala is hosted at a classy hall, all gold and white. Live musicians play in the background, and tables are arranged in a grid-like pattern, leading up to a central stage. Ollie stands off to the side, where staircases swoop upwards towards the many exits.

He shifts awkwardly amongst a crowd of wealthy men and women, all who sip daintily from champagne glasses, feeling out of place. Ollie decides that he doesn't like this scene very much, and remains as close to the wall as possible without physically touching it. That being said, however, one social elite in particular has caught his eye.

He nudges a passing waiter. "Who's he?" he asks, gesturing vaguely to the redhead man socializing with a rather large group of well-dressed people.

"Roy Harper," the waiter replies dryly. "He's a playwright."

"A playwright?" Ollie asks curiously, but the waiter is already gone.

He can see the way the boy has with the snobs of the wealthy, the way he can make them laugh and listen to him intently, clinging to every word. Ollie nods in approval. Roy Harper will be his in to improve relations with the upper class—and hopefully reverse the press's opinion. He makes his decision, and strides towards Roy.

"Roy Harper!" Ollie swoops in and slings an arm around the redhead's shoulders as if they've been friends for a while. "My God, is it good to see you."

"Oliver Queen," Roy greets coolly, extracting himself from Ollie. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Ollie smiles around at the people gathered around Roy before turning fully. "I hope to discuss a business proposition," he says in a casual manner, but he can't help but feel as if this isn't the right setting to try to talk Roy into his circus. "But…in a different setting."

Quickly, Ollie ushers Roy out of the gala before the other can protest, and steers him down the street. He finds the first bar he can—one that's nearly devoid of any patrons, but seems well off enough. Quickly, he sits Roy down at the bar and signals the bartender.

He's going to need to get Roy drunk for this.

Briskly, Ollie sets a shot in front of Roy, and one in front of himself. A hidden challenge.

"I admire you, Mr. Harper," Ollie says, straddling the stool restlessly.

"Thank you, Mr. Queen," Roy responds, but it's obvious he doesn't want to be here. A single eyebrow is raised, prompting Ollie to go on.

Ollie does. "I told you of a proposition, yes? Well, my proposition is this: I propose that you come and join me in producing my circus— _Queen's Circus_. Surely you've heard of it. It's the talk of the town."

Roy looks as if he wants to retort. Seconds later, he does exactly that. "It is the talk of the town," he says. "But not in the good way. Don't get me wrong—you're doing amazing things. Truly. But I want no part in them. I can't just run off and join the circus."

"Why not?" Ollie asks, laughing slightly. "I mean, you clearly have a flair for show business."

"Show business?" Roy asks, glancing at Ollie out of the corner of his eye. Ollie hums affirmation in response. The redhead looks even more confused. "I've never heard of it."

"Because I just invented it," Ollie says, flashing him a grin. "Right here, right now. I put the offer out—you needn't be trapped with the socialite upper class, Mr. Harper. If you come with me and my circus, I can free you from all this bourgeois mumbo-jumbo."

He quickly takes the shot, and Roy does the same, throwing his head back and allowing the alcohol to rush down his throat. Ollie signals the bartender.

"Take a risk," he tells Roy, whose face is unreadable. "Come with me—you can be free from the social pressures, take a chance, fly with me."

He knows he's preaching poetry, and nothing in Roy's face is changing, except for a great dubiousness. Ollie signals the bartender again. They're going to need more shots.

Several are placed in front of them, and Ollie stares Roy right in the eyes. A challenge.

They both take a glass and throw it back.

"Friend, you want to cut me in," Roy says, shaking his head. "It just won't happen. Thanks, but no thanks. I'm good. Unfortunately for you and fortunately for me—I quite _like_ the life I'm 'trapped' in. I admire you, Mr. Queen, I really do—but this uptown part that I have? I'm planning on keeping it."

Ollie shakes his head. He's getting nowhere. Roy says he's content in the part he plays—but he doesn't know a life other than this. Ollie just has to convince him, he has to give him a taste of the dreams that he possesses.

"The thing about the upper class," Ollie says, leaning against the bar, "is that they have no other use but to host fancy parties and attend plays and the like. But with me…"

"…I'd be the talk of the town," Roy says adamantly. "Disgraced and disowned, my inheritance bashed. You realize this foolishness, right, Mr. Queen?"

Ollie resists the urge to roll his eyes. Roy's stubborn. "But you would finally live a little—you'd learn to laugh a little," he insists, taking another shot as Roy does the same. He can feel a pleasant buzz going. Ollie's always been able to keep his alcohol down. Judging on how red Roy is becoming, he doubts the redhead is as good as Ollie. "Just let yourself have the freedom to dream a little, it'll take down your walls and allow you to breathe—now that's a deal worth taking."

He takes another shot as its laid before him, and with sloppiness and reluctance, Roy also takes his. But something's changed in Roy's face, and it's not just the alcohol talking. There's a yearning. Ollie had picked right—Roy wants to leave the fanciness of the upper class.

"It's intriguing," Roy finally relents a bit, and it takes all Ollie has not to let his joy show on his face. "What percentage of the show would I be taking?"

Ollie tries not to make his face fall.

Of course it wouldn't be that simple, to just take Roy on like he has his troupe. Roy would want something in return. It's the way he was born, to bargain, to talk, to make deals. Ollie thinks it over.

"Seven percent," Ollie offers hopefully.

Roy barks out a laugh. "I wasn't born this _morning_ ," he says, taking another shot. Ollie follows. "Eighteen."

"Hogwash!" Ollie exclaims, feigning being affronted.

Roy rolls his eyes. "I'll compromise at fifteen," he says, examining one of his empty glasses.

"I'd do eight," Ollie says, knowing Roy's slight drunkenness is helping him out in this situation.

"Twelve," Roy counters quickly.

"Maybe nine," he says solidly, trying to make it appear as if he won't budge a bit. Roy, however, smirks. Even in his semi-drunken state, he can still see Ollie struggling to maintain a position.

"Ten," Roy says.

In the next second, Ollie's hand grasps Roy's in a firm handshake.

Ollie heads home from the bar, a stupid smile affixed to his face. Tomorrow, he's giving Roy a tour of his circus.

* * *

The day doesn't come fast enough, and Roy is up, his head throbbing slightly. He throws on some slacks and a white button-down, combing and gelling his hair so it rises in a stylish and subtle wave. After this, he walks out, fully intending on meeting Oliver at the entrance of his circus.

Oliver, however, has taken it upon himself to escort Roy there himself. Roy rolls his eyes at the childishness of the ringleader, but nonetheless talks amiably with him as they approach the corner on which the circus is. Roy finds himself stopped just outside the building, and has to be pulled in by Oliver, who insists that it'll be fine.

Roy walks in, and is immediately assaulted by new sights. _Strange_ new sights.

He walks past a rotund man who sits on a chair that seems far too small.

"That's Ralph Dibny," Oliver tells Roy. "The heaviest man on Earth."

Roy doesn't believe him.

That being said, he can't help but stare at the young woman with white hair, her skin the lightest he's ever seen. Her eyes are hard chips of ice, her lips blue. Ralph tells her something, and her lips part in silent laughter, the skin around her eyes crinkling, softening her strict features.

"That's Caitlin Snow," Ollie introduces her with a wave. "Otherwise known as Killer Frost. Ah! And right behind her is Barbara Minerva, otherwise known as the Untamable Cheetah."

Roy's eyes are drawn to the woman in the back, whose face is covered in fur. A defect, most likely. What's most curious about her are the spots that interrupt the tan of the fur, making her appear as a cheetah. In a conspiratorial whisper, Ollie informs Roy that the spots were painted on.

Ollie shows Roy several more of the acts, including a freakishly muscled man, a man with seemingly no features, a woman who can shatter glass with her voice. He introduces her to the green-skinned singer Megan, along with the archer Artemis (who Roy takes an immediate dislike to).

"Daddy!"

Roy turns, sighting two little girls threading their way between Conner and Kaldur (a black man with gills and an affinity with the water). Ollie bends down, a great smile on his face as he embraces his daughters, as Roy assumes. The two babble for a bit in the way children do.

"—and Zatanna needs your help!" the shorter of the two says imploringly, tugging on Ollie's hand. "Come on, she needs help right now!"

Apologetically, Ollie grimaces and looks at Roy. "Er…I'll be back in a bit. The central area is where the troupe performs—check it out!"

He's quickly tugged away by his overexcited daughters, leaving Roy standing, a bit dumbfounded. With nothing more to do, Roy makes his way towards the central area of the museum. He finds bleachers arranged in a circle, and a circular stage in the middle. A trapeze hangs from above, and a rope winds its way down, touching the floor.

Roy then notices that despite the stage's apparent vacantness, there's someone there.

Another redhead emerges, wearing a tight sleeveless tank. He holds a long staff in his hand, and he carefully examines the tips, which are covered in cloth. Satisfied, the redhead takes out a matchbox, strikes one, and lights the ends of his staff. Orange flames dance across the cloth-covered ends as the redhead tosses the matchbox to the side, gripping the staff in both hands. And then, he begins.

Roy can only watch, transfixed. The other redhead's movements are fluid and natural, his limbs all flowing in conjunction with one another. He leaps into the air, the staff spinning at great speeds, and he lands gracefully, taking his upper body and dipping downwards, his eyes closed. He straightens and continues to twist his staff, letting go of it in his hands, balancing it on one foot, tossing it high into the air and catching it again. The routine continues, and with each movement, Roy is increasingly enraptured.

Finally, the redhead takes one end, and seems to inhale the fire. Roy's heart leaps as the redhead opens his mouth, letting loose a bout of flames that burn bright before disappearing into the darkness.

Roy doesn't even realize the redhead's routine is finished, standing stock-still.

The redhead's green eyes catch Roy's.

Quickly, the redhead ducks his head, moving off into the shadows. Roy can only stare.

"Again, I'm dreadfully sorry for taking so long—oh, was that Wally? Excellent, his routine is always a joy to see," comes Ollie's voice from behind Roy, but Roy can only register one word. Wally. The redhead's name is Wally.

Dumbly, Roy nods. "You've really done something here," he says, recollecting himself and retaining at least some dignity. "Something great. I'm glad we're partners."

"More like…you're the overcompensated apprentice," Ollie says smoothly, shaking his head with a laugh. "Meanwhile, have you seen our acrobat, Dick Grayson? He's incredibly talented…"

Roy drifts off into thought, following Ollie as he completes his tour, introducing him to more of the troupe. Roy tries to remember all of their names, but one in particular continuously comes to the forefront of his mind. He pushes it away, focusing on the here and now, plastering a smile to his face and shaking a variety of hands of all different shapes, sizes, and colors.

That night, Roy attends one of the shows to see the magic in action. He's transported to another world, and is alongside the crowd as he cheers loudly as the show ends. He quickly goes to Ollie to congratulate him, and even talks with some of the acts.

The following night after a show, Roy approaches Ollie with a purpose. And a smile.

"I've arranged for a meeting with Queen Victoria," Roy says excitedly. "You said you were struggling in popularity among the upper class, and this is exactly what we need!"

Ollie looks as if he has doubts. "How many of us would be going?"

It's only then Roy realizes that quite a few members of the troupe are listening in on their conversation, their eyes all focused on himself and Ollie. Uncomfortable, he shifts from foot to foot. "Er…however many, I suppose. I never named a number."

"Excellent," Ollie's face lights up immediately, the doubts chased away. "All of us are going, then!"

"What?" Roy asks, feeling as if he's been punched in the gut.

" _What_?" Artemis echoes, standing from her crate. She walks towards Ollie with a purpose. "All of us going to meet the Queen? Are you _insane_?"

"Well, I suppose the best people are," Ollie says dismissively with a shrug. He lays a hand on Artemis's shoulder, and Roy can see the girl physically tense. "Come on. It'll all be fine."

Wally approaches Artemis from behind, pulling her away. Roy glances down, seeing that Wally's hand is firmly grasping Artemis's arm. For some reason, he feels the faintest feeling of disappointment.

"We're either all in this together," Ollie says, which Roy finds humorous for no reason in particular, "or we're not. Either all of us go, or none of us do."

"Hear, hear!" Laurel, the Banshee, cries.

Murmurs of excitement sweep through the crowd. Roy groans. What has he gotten himself into?

* * *

 **A/N: One more thing! I strained my wrist and have been banned from typing. Ugh. The next chapter may take a little longer to come out, but thankfully I was already halfway done writing it when I strained my wrist.**


	4. Interlude I: Dick Grayson

**A/N: I've been gone because of tendinitis. Here's a little interlude! :)**

* * *

The young seven-year-old looks adoringly into the eyes of his mother and father, who sit across from one another at their small table. They hold hands, speaking rapidly in accented English, perhaps a prayer. Richard waits impatiently as they stop talking, digging in. He bounces happily, humming as he eats. And eats. His mother and father chuckle at him and ruffle his hair, his mother quietly reprimanding him to use his manners. Richard nods and slows down, no longer looking like a starving kid.

Mary and John Grayson run the Grayson Trapeze Arts, a new invention that's still with its dangers. Richard watches in fascination as they swing from a bar high above, their bodies contorting around it. Never once have they fallen, only perhaps in practice, and that's when the bar is low. Sometimes, they put on shows to display to the bourgeois of society, a celebration of culture and the Victorian era.

Richard practices with them, too, on the low-hanging trapeze bar. He's fallen and broken his wrist before, and he still remembers how much it hurt. Nonetheless, when Richard "flies" with his parents, he feels truly alive. He giggles in the air, and when he's finally on the ground, he nurses his sore abs.

Back to the present, he continues to eat his mother's cooking, excited to witness their high-flying performance.

Later that same night, that same seven-year-old stands over the still bodies of his parents.

Screams meet the boy's ears, but he hardly hears them. Richard wonders, faintly, why his parents are so still. Why they're on the ground, when they should be in the air. Why they aren't flying. Why did they fall?

Why do we fall?

Richard vaguely feels himself being pulled away by a big man in a large coat. He stumbles away, and the last he sees of his mother and father are coats being zipped over them. He's lead away from the Grayson Trapeze Arts building, lead to a carriage. He's never been in a carriage before.

Somehow, he doesn't quite register the ride.

He's taken to a manor. It's dark and in the woods, imposing and scary. The big man in the large coat helps Richard out of the carriage and solemnly marches him to the door of the manor. Richard doesn't know what's happening. Why can't he go back to his mother and father?

(Richard doesn't know this, but a certain member of the bourgeois in the crowd had watched him, and had taken immediate action.)

"This is your new home," the big man says, clapping Richard on the back so hard that the boy stumbles forward. "It's home to Bruce Wayne, a rather prevalent figure in today's media."

Richard isn't good at interpreting social situations, but he can tell that the big man doesn't like Bruce Wayne. Richard's face screws up. He decides that if the big man doesn't like Bruce Wayne, then he doesn't like Bruce Wayne, either. That being said, he also doesn't like the big man. He just wants his parents back. They fell, but when they fall, they always get back up. They get back up with a smile and some laughter, nursing a bruised limb or two.

The door swings open, and Richard is ushered inside. There's a kindly butler, a man with graying hair and a funny accent. Richard decides that he immediately likes this man, even when he dismisses the big man. The butler introduces himself as Alfred Pennyworth, but Richard refers to him as Agent A. Because that's much cooler, and much simpler to pronounce.

"Come to the kitchen young master," Alfred says, a leathery hand gently pressing Richard's back, leading him through the grand entrance hall. "Luckily for you, I've just prepared a batch of my famous chocolate cookies."

Richard's eyes go wide upon seeing the cookies. Unlike the pastries he sees in the bakery down the street sometimes, they're warm and soft on the outside, chocolatey and gooey on the inside. Richard quickly demolishes many, forgetting, briefly, of his night.

Minutes pass in contented silence, broken only by the clock ticking on the wall.

Swallowing, Richard finally gathers the courage. "Where's Mr. Bruce Wayne?" he asks Alfred, whose face suddenly sharpens. Richard wonders what he did wrong.

"Master Bruce is out," Alfred responds smoothly. "But I'm sure he'll return in the morning. For now, however, I'll show you to your quarters, Master Richard."

Richard frowns. "That sounds so fancy, Agent A," he says childishly. Imitating Alfred's British accent, he mocks, "'Master Richard.'"

Alfred's frown matches Richard's own. "Agent A…?" he mutters, perplexed. He moves on with a shake of his head. "If not Master Richard, then perhaps, a nickname?"

Richard thinks long and hard. Agent R would be a ripoff of Agent A. What does Richard shorten to?

He goes to bed in his new, large bed, thinking about a nickname for himself. He tosses and turns on the foreign mattress, not liking how many covers there are. It's nothing like his small cot back at Grayson Trapeze Arts. He then sits up, his eyes wide. Grayson Trapeze Arts!

He quickly leaves his room and races down the hallway, running down the stairs. He nearly barrels into Alfred, who stands at the bottom of the staircase with a candle in hand. The unflappable butler simply raises an eyebrow, waiting for Richard to proceed.

"My…" Richard trails off. "The Grayson Trapeze Arts. The building. The…mother and father…"

They fell, they fell, they fell.

Why do we fall?

They didn't stand up to offer him a reassuring smile. They didn't stop the big man with the large coat from taking him away. They didn't move when the coats were zipped over their sightless eyes, they didn't get up and proclaim that everything was all right. They didn't move when Richard implored them to, they weren't breathing.

His parents are dead.

They fell, they fell, they fell.

Richard's shoulders shake suddenly.

Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

Richard's knees tremble, and he's on the floor, staring unseeingly at the ruby red carpet. Alfred has put the candle down, and Richard feels arms being wrapped around him, pulling him in. The butler is surprisingly warm. At first, Richard tries to fight the embrace, struggling and crying out piteously. Eventually, he settles into it, sobbing into Alfred's shirt.

The world seems bleak, now. Colorless. There's a great gaping hole in Richard's chest, one that no bandages can fix. He clutches onto Alfred like a lifeline, his only lifeline in this suddenly hostile world. The trees are bare, people who were once simple passerby are now hostile strangers, and he's on his own. His parents aren't here. They'll never be here, again.

Alfred rubs circles into Richard's back. They stay there for quite some time until Richard has cried himself to sleep.

The next months pass in a blur, eventually turning into years. Bruce is always "out," sparing little time for his new ward. Richard—or Dick, now—doesn't mind it, as he has Alfred to pester. He's schooled by Alfred, and receives meals from the butler. Occasionally, Dick can rope the butler into a game of chess or checkers, but usually Alfred dominates at those, prompting Dick to give up and leave in frustration.

At ten years old, on a whim, Dick sneaks out of the manor, intending to head into town. He walks the long forest path, kicking up leaves as he goes. Fall is soon on the horizon, but it's still warm and sunny. He continues past the manor gates until he reaches the town, where he wanders through it.

Eventually, by chance, he comes to a stop in front of a brick building.

There's a logo on it, now. Voltaire Inc., it says.

Dick feels that empty feeling in his chest again. The Grayson Trapeze Arts are no more.

He stands there for what seems like eternity until his thoughts are interrupted by some passerby. He turns, bewildered, as two kids walk by him. He watches the girl, noticing her hands. Or the lack of her hands. She only has bandaged stumps. He can't help but stare as they turn and move out of his sight.

He decides that's more than enough for one day.

He returns to the manor to meet a harried Alfred and a grumpy Bruce. Dick crosses his arms and juts out his chin as Bruce tries to reprimand him, but Dick doesn't care. Bruce is too absent a figure in Dick's life for the boy to truly care.

Dick leaves the next day.

He's determined to start the Grayson Trapeze Arts again. He's hired at a mine, where he spends hours a day sitting in the dark next to a small door, listening intently for the scraping of carts coming up, pushed by other children. He supposes he's lucky, being so small that he's assigned this duty. Still, the endless darkness is getting to him.

He's paid very little, and in the end, he's forced to return to the manor, unable to live off the paycheck he earns. Bruce is uncaring as always, but his face turns a beet red when he yells at Dick, and the boy is surprised. Maybe Bruce did care a little bit—but not enough to show it. Bruce is always away, constantly pursuing more business opportunities. Being the CEO of Wayne Enterprises…

Dick gets an idea.

He goes to Bruce in his office, begging him to buy the Voltaire Inc. building. Bruce refuses.

Dick steals the money.

He feels bad about it, mostly because of Alfred's teachings, but he takes the money, anyways, determined to fulfill his parents' legacy. He tries to bargain with Voltaire Inc., but they're adamant, refusing to give their building up, even to Bruce Wayne's ward. Dick tries every angle he can with the manager of the building, but eventually he's booted to the curb with a "better luck next time, kid." A fire burns in Dick's stomach as he storms off in a hurry, rage consuming his insides. That building belonged to his parents. They built their legacies there, and it's all being destroyed by Voltaire Inc.

He returns back to the manor, despondent. Alfred reprimands him at first (and Dick feels genuinely bad), but eventually consoles Dick when he realizes what his intent had been. Dick walks slowly to his room that night, unaware that Alfred makes his way towards Bruce's study at the same time.

The following week, Wayne Enterprises announces that it's buying the entirety of Voltaire Inc.

Dick doesn't know what to think. He sits at the table, his fork dragging through his salad sluggishly.

The chair scrapes the floor beside him. He doesn't look up.

"Alfred told me you wanted the building back," Bruce says, his voice low and rhythmic. "You wanted to reinstate the Grayson Trapeze Arts."

Dick just numbly pokes at the greenery on his plate, still refusing to look up. He hears a sigh.

"I know I've been…distant," Bruce says as Dick huffs disbelievingly. "But hear me out when I say this. It wasn't my original intent to be like this to you. I was there, the night of their final performance."

Their final performance. His parents. Dick sets his fork down.

"I watched them. They flew, Richard," Bruce presses on gently, but he seems firm at the same time. How does he manage that? "They flew, until their wings couldn't fly any longer. Richard, look at me."

Dick jerks his gaze to meet Bruce's, his hands trembling. He's glad he had set his fork down when he had, otherwise it would have clattered to the floor. He bites his lip to keep the pent-up emotion inside from emerging. He stares at Bruce's face, his stupid, angular face, hating the way those steel blue eyes soften in concern, hating the way his mouth is twisted downwards in a slight frown.

"I hate you," Dick says vehemently and quietly.

"I know," Bruce replies, and Dick can see a flash of sadness in his eyes. A fierce triumphant satisfaction seizes Dick, but it's soon replaced with shame. Is this what his mother and father raised him to be?

"I'm sorry," Dick mutters.

Bruce seems to pause a beat. "I know," he finally says. "I bought Voltaire Inc., and I've moved their headquarters to a different building. I've also arranged for the Grayson Trapeze Arts to be restored. Everything will be covered, Richard."

Dick nods along. He knows that Bruce is a businessman all around, and he isn't good at emotions. He's not very good at people, in general. And Dick understands this, at the young age of ten. He understands that, in his own way, Bruce is trying to reach out to Dick, and the only way he knows how is through this. And Dick can't be happier. He thinks about the trapeze.

He's never done it before, not without his parents.

"Why do we fall?" Dick asks, a terribly insightful question for a ten-year-old to be asking. His voice is hollow, his tone absent. He looks Bruce straight in the eye, the emotion-wracked boy vanished. Instead, he seems to have a new resolve, a new determination.

Bruce answers simply.

"So we can learn to pick ourselves up."


End file.
